The Haircut, The World And Us

I gave the boys haircuts. It was time. Tony resisted the idea. Am I going to look OK? People will laugh at me. What if I’ll look ridiculous? You won’t, I tell him. He could walk with a pumpkin smashed over his head and he’d still look good, I press on. It’s the mother’s argument that kids reject but need and love to hear. Oh, I’m being subjective, you say? If not me then who? He groans, secretly pleased. Moooom…

Why does he care what others say? Already. He’s not even 10 yet. People say things, I agree. The world judges. It just does. It points long fingers, it laughs, it shrugs and moves on. You’re still licking your wounds inflicted by those long fingers by the time you’re yesterday’s news and the world moves on to the next haircut that has to be analyzed and the next life choices that have to be dissected. I tell him it won’t matter what others say. If he feels good about it. Is my word enough? Ha. Am I believing it? Trying. Then why do I explain myself to others, why do I explain my haircuts and all my other decisions? Whether the world agrees or not to the things I do or wear or strive for is not important in the end. The world will not lie down on my pillow at the end of a tough day, I know that by now. It’s a fact.

In my world messy hair is known to be collateral damage to tight hugs and waking up in the morning to a world of wonder. Why make it go away then?

Once I got this haircut followed by some blow drying that made my hair look mess-less. Perfectly so. Every strand was straight and conforming. I could hear tiny wailing from somewhere in there. I took the back lane home, put my hair under the tap and tossed it back to the usual. I really am not a perfect-hair kind of gal, never was, never will be. So I’ll tell the boys again and again: Imperfect is good. It’s real. It’s ready for when the wind blows hard. Because it does. It just does. It’s good for tumbling in the sand should you find yourself at the beach. And you will. Life has it that way.